True White Brother
by eleanoralovesananias
Summary: When he was little, the dreams had terrified him. He would come running to England, or Canada, when they were around. But more often England was across the ocean and Canada wasn't allowed to see him, and he had cried alone for the visions to stop. Contains America being out of character, England having parental freak-outs, and magic, lots of it. Rating may go up in the future.
1. Chapter 1

**_IMPORTANT_: This story refrences the Hopi prophecy of Pahana, the True White Brother. Please remember that it's still fiction, and fiction written by somebody with no Hopi blood or Hopi experiences. I'll change some things to fit the story, and some things I made up out of my own head, and some things I'll probably just mix up. It's not meant to be accurate in the least. I definitely don't mean to offend anyone. **

_~~Once upon a time...~~_

The United States of America glanced behind him, making sure all his guests had left. One he had shut the door behind England and chased Russia, who was slinking around near the fence, off his property, the blond American let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He closed his eyes, and visions of places he had never been and ages before he was born danced on the inside of his eyelids. He opened them again and took a deep, shuddering breath before heading down the hallway, intent on having some uninterrupted time to put the nightmares to rest.

America's house looked big enough from the outside, but it was much larger than the two stories other people saw. The house extended far underneath the ground, into a labyrinth of hallways - which became shafts - which became tunnels. The very lowest stories were no more than holes in the ground, kept from collapsing by makeshift beams and pillars. And it was to these that the blue-eyed nation went, grabbing a lantern off a hook for use where the electric lighting stopped. Other than the dim light of the lantern it was pitch-black down here. The third time he screamed because of a shadow, America reminded himself to donate his entire collection of scary movies to Goodwill.

Finally the American reached Floor 0, of nearly three hundred. He climbed down a ladder from the floor above, which had resembled a tunnel in an anthill, and stepped onto the marble tiles of this forsaken underbelly. His footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the utter silence, especially after the soft earth of most of the lower tiers. He extinguished the lantern and slowly walked around the nine-sided room, lighting a candle in each corner. They made the room seem enormous as their light glinted off the walls of polished red sandstone. America reached up and lit several small hanging pyres of different herbs, which made a pungent, dizzying smoke as they burned.

The nation spirit walked to the center of the room and sat crosslegged on the thin rug, spread over the marble floor. He made himself as comfortable as he could, then laid his hands on his knees and let his eyes fall shut. Figures, shadows, strange suns and ancient faces vied for his attention, things he had never seen in his little-over-three-hundred-year existence. When he was little the dreams had terrified him. He had always come running to England, or Canada, when they were around. But more often England was across the ocean and Canada wasn't allowed to see him, and he had cried alone for the visions to stop.

As the young American inhaled more and more incense, as the candles burned down to flickering stubs and cast endless shadows across the polished red sandstone walls, his eyes began to rove aimlessly and his head to droop. The scenes behind his eyelids faded to black as he fell into a deep sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Russia stood on his tiptoes, trying to see over the American's fence. Even for the formidably tall nation, it was hard to do. He grasped the top of the rough wooden palisade and hoisted himself off the ground. His chin resting uncomfortably in the crook between two boards, his violet eyes scanned America's unkempt lawn for signs of the blond nation - or anything interesting, for that matter. He honestly wasn't looking for anything in particular; it was simply convenient and enjoyable to spy on the capitalist nation after a meeting.

Behind him and slightly below him, America cleared his throat. "Having fun up there?"

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Russia was livid. He could admit that perhaps America had a right to escort him off the property, but he did not need to be _carried_ by his shirt collar like some common trespasser. And much, much worse than that small humiliation was the travesty that had been made out of his precious scarf. After having survived millennia, it was ripped to shreds.

The Russian pondered his options, controlling his temper. Either he could fix it on his own, which would be no small task, or he could approach his sister about it, an idea which did not sit well with him. Ukraine was already irritated with him over gas prices, and the last thing he needed was his boss to find out that he was secretly terrified of his warmhearted but strict older sister.

The nation gritted his teeth and let out a string of _kol_s, his violet aura flaring just slightly. A few college students moved to the other side of the street.

Then abruptly he turned around. America was going to fix his scarf. The threat of nuclear missiles would be more than enough to get him to pick up knitting for a day or two. The Russian stalked off in the direction he had been so rudely expelled from, his large-boned hand straying to the pipe tucked underneath his woolen coat.


	3. Chapter 3

On the other side of the world, America slept well and deeply, his chin brushing the collar of his shirt, his mop of blond hair tickling his eyelashes. Here, the scene is a late summer night in Berlin. Despite the warmth, fat raindrops splash the pavement and roll into gutters like so many iridescent marbles. A solitary figure in a suit huddles under a black umbrella, hurrying down the drenched street and out of our story.

On the corner, a drab, squat house that would fit as well in the West Berlin of the past as in a Germanic village of the further past and as well as it did on this modern street, sat squarely, rain dripping from a single lit window.

In the window, a man sat at a solid wooden desk that would have dwarfed anyone of smaller stature. As it was, the man's imposing figure seemed at home there; the only sign that he was indeed a man and not an elaborate carving in the wood of the desk itself was the gentle snoring that escaped his nostrils. He was dressed for work, in a white collared shirt and red tie, his blond hair still efficiently gelled back except for a few unruly strands near the nape of his neck that had sprung free. A well-made pen rested listlessly in the crook of his thumb. Its tip marked the middle of a word on the top sheet of a stack of paperwork.

He shifted in his sleep and moved his hand which still held the pen, drawing a dark line off the edge of the paper and across the wood of the desk. His elbow struck the stack of paper and pushed it off the edge of the desk.

Germany woke up to find his papers scattered, one of them balancing perfectly on his nose, as if innocent of the long paper cut across his cheek.

The German swore as the cut throbbed and turned to look at the clock, blinking sleep from his eyes. (The piece of paper reluctantly dislodged itself from his face and fluttered resentfully to the floor.) He hesitated as he saw the mess, debating whether to patch himself up or re-organize his work first. He decided on the latter and gathered his papers from underneath the desk and around the chair as well as from some unlikely places, including on one of the blades of the ceiling fan and somehow, down his shirt, before heading to the kitchen and rinsing out the cut.

The blond nation sighed as he dunked his head in the sink and washed out the thick hair gel. He took off his tie and hung it over the shower curtain rod - not the ideal for a man who prided himself on organization, but it was almost midnight and he was exhausted - before stumbling down the stairs. He paused in front of his brother's room, hearing someone speaking. Germany tilted his head to where he could look inside, careful not to make any movements that would let Prussia know he was spying on him.

The elder brother was asleep, his long limbs sprawled out underneath sporadically tangled black-and-white checkered blankets. He snored into his pillow, his white hair flaring upwards like a miniature volcanic eruption with every breath. Prussia shifted, white lashes fluttering to briefly reveal clouded red eyes, and turned onto his side, murmuring.

"Nu taawa! Puma niina nu unangwa!" he yelled suddenly. Germany jumped.

The albino subsided as quickly as he had begun, and turned over again, still muttering to himself. His long fingers tapped out an erratic rhythm on the corner of his pillowcase. His younger brother cautiously took a step into the room, confused. Prussia talking in his sleep was hardly unusual, but what language was that? The blond German liked to think of himself as a well-read and well-rounded person, but he had never heard it before.

Germany listened for a few minutes more, but his eyelids began to droop, and, forgetting about his curiosity, the man headed to bed. Behind him, Prussia cried out again in a language as ancient as the sun while restless visions danced behind his eyes and outside, the rain poured on.


	4. Chapter 4

France sighed happily, sipping at his coffee, one arm around a glowering England. A newspaper was open on the clean table, one flapping corner held down by a vase which contained a single red rose. His silky blond hair rustled in the breeze from an open window. The Frenchman had had to practically wrestle England to the ground to open it; the shorter nation seemed to have a hatred for fresh air.

England glowered at his thick fingernails. The blasted wind ruffled his eyebrows, which he was sure looked ridiculous. However, that was nothing compared to what it did to Francis's shoulder-length hair. The stuff was all over the place, including occasionally in his mouth when he opened it to complain. He longed for a teacup, preferably full of boiling water - not to drink, but to smash over France's head. He lifted his head to glare at the spotlessly periwinkle sky. _The one time I want it to rain._

Meanwhile, Russia stomped up the hill towards the house where the two were sitting. The American coward had conveniently not been home when he arrived. After breaking down the door and searching every corner of the extravagant and squalid house, the Russian had angrily concluded that America had run to his precious England. He knocked forcefully, three times on the door.

France frowned briefly, then a highly amused smile settled on his lips. "Ohonhonhon," he laughed. "Were you _expecting_ someone, Angleterre?" England looked horrified. France chuckled again at his expression and, setting down the newspaper, laid a slender hand on the doorknob.

More knocks echoed through the house. Clearly someone was irritated. "Patience, I can only open a door so fast," France scolded. He opened the door.

There, filling up the entire doorway, was a very, _very _angry Russia.

France fell backwards and landed on his (very nice) butt. Blue eyes met smouldering violet ones, and Russia placed one huge hand on each side of the doorway, his eyes burning and his coat full of wind, making him look even bigger than he was. A purple aura filled the room, darkening the summer afternoon into a horrific midnight. _"Kol kol kol..." _he thundered. From the other room, England looked up from the newspaper he had appropriated and quietly scooched into the corner.

France desperately scrambled up and slammed the door on the furious Russian.

Leaning against the door, the blonde nation breathed easy for a few moments before the door splintered and buckled as a metal pipe pierced the wood. Russia dug his fingernails into the crack and peeled the door in two. He threw the ruined door to his side and stormed into the room where England was sitting. England scrambled away from him, too slowly. The violet-eyed nation picked him up by his shirt collar and yelled into his face, "Where is he?"

England resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose at the overwhelming smell of vodka. "Where is who?" he asked, trying to remain calm. Thousands of years of sarcasm skills aided him in his battle to stay deadpan.

Russia bared his teeth and snarled. His usually childlike face was twisted into that of a monster. "_Amerika. _Where is he hiding, _comrade?_"

Violet light washed over the Englishman, filling him with a visceral sense of dread. His breathing accelerated without his consent and his eyes locked onto Russia's staring, piercing purple eyes, unable to look away. Tongue-tied, England opened his mouth, then closed it again. He started to tremble uncontrollably. "He's not - I mean - I haven't -"

"He's not here, Russia!" interjected France from the doorway, standing safely out of the reach of the purple light. "Neither of us have seen America since the meeting. He told me he was going to be home all day. Why don't you go there?"

Russia dropped England and turned to face a suddenly ashen France. "I did," he growled, a little more calmly. "He must have run before I got there."

France gulped. England, meanwhile, frowned confusedly. _Run? America? He wouldn't run. Not out of bravery either, just stupidity. _"I'll help you look for him," the Englishman blurted suddenly. France looked at him like he was insane.

Russia turned to look, not without curiosity, at the green-eyed nation. His face had settled back into its usual innocent expression, with violet eyes wide and pudgy cheeks adding to the illusion of harmlessness. "You would help me, comrade?"

England hesitated. "Well - I mean - "

Russia's face fell. The tall nation tried to make himself smaller, so perhaps he would be less intimidating. He fingered his torn scarf: now that his anger was gone, he just wanted to cry at the loss of his beloved character item. He looked up. "How about," he suggested, trying to be reasonable, "we look for _Alfredka _together, just for your sake? I'll help find him and I won't touch him, I promise. In return..." Russia showed England his ruined scarf. "You fix this for me, _da?_"

England blinked in surprise. That was what this was about? Well, he could handle that, as long as the Russian didn't go crazy again. "Let me see it."


	5. Chapter 5

A ladybug crawled up the yellow stalk of a tall, dead blade of grass. Her candy-red wings made for an almost unnerving contrast against the tangled thickets of the lawn America never bothered to care for. She touched solid ground on a rusting strip of metal that helped comprise the old iron gate that blocked the haunted-looking house from the rest of the world.

Three sets of footsteps crunched on the gravel walkway. One was light and fluid, each foot remaining on the ground until the propulsion of the other made it impossible. One was also light, but crisp, taking staccato steps with the toe pointing downward, stabbing into the ground like a human crampon with each step. And the third made the ground shake with its heavy, almost stumping, yet surprisingly graceful gait that indicated someone accustomed to walking on thick ice. The ladybug paused in her busy footwork. Three sets of hands reached outwards, one slender, one thin-boned and almost brittle-looking, and one huge and pudgy with thick bones and short fingers. The ladybug spread her wings and rocketed into the sky.

All three nations reached for the gate at the same time. France let go and waited for someone else to open it, and there was a brief staring contest between England and Russia - which Russia, of course, won. The tall nation pulled on the gate. It clanked but held firm. Russia clucked his tongue disapprovingly, then, with a single blow, broke the lock and forced the gates open with his pipe. France winced.

The reluctant alliance entered and headed up to the door. France stopped to wrestle his bright red velvet cloak from the grasp of a sticker-burr plant, England and Russia going on without him. Russia stumbled over the hidden stump of what looked to have been an oak tree, and thus England reached the door alone. The nation glared at the tall oak door, tempted to rip down the cheesily-made welcome sign. But he sighed and knocked loudly. No response.

France, meanwhile, followed him. Russia was well tangled in a mess of weeds and thorn bushes, his flapping scarf and coat caught in all kinds of places, a steady stream of swearing escaping his mouth as he struggled to get free. France gave him a wide berth. The long-haired blond nation glanced at England, who was pounding on the door and screaming threats. He sighed. The younger nation was an excellent spy if given the chance, but covert solutions didn't occur to him immediately, and direct conflict was more his style anyway. England would most likely forgive him after a few centuries if he just slipped in without the other.

France went around the house, looking for a side door. There was one, but it was locked tight, and so were all the first floor windows. The blond nation gritted his teeth exasperatedly; when was America ever this thorough? Then he stepped back, cape hugging his ankles, and looked up at the second floor.


	6. Chapter 6

England jumped as the door creaked open. He got ready to yell at America for worrying him, and had just taken a breath when France's grinning face popped out. "Coming in, _mon ami?_"

England scowled irritatedly. "How the hell did _you _get in?"

"Side door," France lied, not wanting the Englishman to know he had climbed the wall to a second-story window. "You know how America is about locking things." England rolled his eyes, grudgingly grateful for the Frenchman's help. France opened the door and stepped aside, and the shorter nation stepped across the threshold.

Immediately England knew something was wrong. The silence hung thick and heavy in the air like a layer of dust. No boisterous laughter echoed down the hallway, no clumsy trampling feet pounded towards them in welcome, no loud yell of "Hey dudes!" was their greeting. The two nations looked at each other, concern written on their faces.

They stopped where the hallway converged. "You go that way, I'll go this way," said England. France nodded and disappeared down the hallway with a flick of his cape. England started cautiously the other way.


End file.
